


Drink Me Up (Swallow Me Down)

by Sparcina



Series: Gotham at Night [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A sprinkle of fluff, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Biting, Claiming Kink, Control Kink, Desperation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings, Kinktober 2019, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Feeding, Submission, Vampire Oswald Cobblepot, Violent Desires, in more than one context, of the vampire variety, this IS gotham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 08:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: Jim's afraid that Oswald has finally met his fate, but when was death enough to kill someone in Gotham?Jim didn’t move an inch as the sharp line of Oswald’s nose ran up and down his neck, swiftly followed by his lips, and then, oh God, his tongue was next, wet and hot as it flattened itself over the goosebumps breaking out all over his skin, licking the fear-tainted sweat off Jim’s throat, and Jim… Jim had witnessed many a strange phenomenon in this wretched city, so he wasn’t surprised, not really, but adrenaline didn’t need his active permission to surge through his body, a fiery brand on the inside of him, the mirror of Oswald’s ice-cold hands snaking under his shirt.





	Drink Me Up (Swallow Me Down)

****

Oswald’s complexion had always been too much on the pale side for Jim’s taste.

Tonight, the mobster's face was completely ashen, had been so ever since Jim had discovered his body in a dark alley of the Narrows. His delicately chiseled features stood out sharply, and the concerning pallor of his lips prompted Jim to reach for a bony wrist, as if the ten times he’d already checked (in the alley itself, in his car, here on this sofa) were mere thoughts he had yet to act upon. Sweat dripped down his nape. _This is not a body, not yet_, he told himself firmly. Holding on to that thought, he squeezed his eyes shut and listened.

No pulse.

He sank to one knee in front of his worn-out sofa and pressed two fingers at the mobster’s throat.

_Come on, _he thought frantically. _Breathe, Oswald!_

But there was no sound beside the rhythmic tic-tac of the grandfather clock at his back.

He dug the heel of a palm into his eyes. Listened to his own heart trying to jackhammer its way out of his ribcage through his throat. Sweat streamed down his cheeks; or so he liked to pretend, anyway. Even blood would do. 

His chest constricted further. “Damn you, Oswald.”

Anger rip through the acute pain of sadness like it always did when people he loved were hanging on that thin thread between life and death.

Not that Jim loved Oswald.

Although he did love him, from the bottom of his heart, but he’d spent so long denying himself the right to feel that way that the feeling was bent all out of shape, distorted just like the leg of the man lying still at his fingertips.

He lay a hand on Oswald’s cheek, sickly white against his own skin burnt by the sun and dusted red at the knuckles. It was like that between them: always white and red, a constant reminder of the blood they’d shed between them, the promises they’d broken like so many bones, candle lives snuffed out. And it kept happening, their lives intertwined in a Moebius ribbon tainted red pain and passion, white forgiveness and trust, white and red, red and white, the colors always transforming back into each other, life and death playing hide and seek to the rhythm of a hate contest that didn’t convince anyone anymore. 

Because that hate, no matter how fierce, was just the beginning. That seed took roots in a ground fertile with so many possibilities, all of which Jim had gone through over the years. When love first struck him out of the blue in a swift turn of Gotham Roulette, he refused to acknowledge it. He swept it under the worn rug of hate, let it rot away and burn, but fires were just an ending, and sometimes ashes gave birth to life, to love, this crippling feeling that made it hard to breathe as he stared down at Oswald, lifeless…

… lifeless, eyes wide open, wide and full of _hunger_, the pupils so dilated the irises, red as blood, were almost invisible.

“What the hell!”

He scrambled to his feet so fast he almost knocked over the coffee table. The relief he’d experienced as Oswald woke up was short-lived; the mobster was presently leaning into him in a definitely _un_Oswald fashion. The Oswald he’d come to know and covet over the years wasn’t like this. The mobster may wear many masks and allow a pick under only to a select few, but Jim was positive that he would have noticed if Oswald had been so fast before, like his crooked leg was a thing of the past. And stronger, too: the grip he had on Jim’s wrists, both of them, made his set of reinforced handcuffs look like a bad BDSM joke. The truly worrying part, though, was that crazed hunger that kept changing Oswald’s expression into true otherness.

As if danger was in need of a face.

“Os-wald,” he panted, trying to pry free, but Oswald’s hold tightened abruptly, and pain shot up Jim’s wrists. “Let me go! What’s going on with you?!”

Oswald’s brow furrowed. “No.” The single word sounded alien. “Stay still.”

It wasn’t in Jim’s nature to keep his belly on display, especially in a situation that was both unclear and dangerous in so many ways.

He tried again. As a cop, _trying again_ was basically his job description.

“Oswald, talk to me.”

But Oswald was beyond reasoning, it seemed. Lining up the full length of his body against Jim’s own, he pressed his face into the crook of his neck and inhaled deeply. Jim didn’t move an inch as the sharp line of Oswald’s nose ran up and down his neck, swiftly followed by his lips, and then, oh God, his tongue was next, wet and hot as it flattened itself over the goosebumps breaking out all over his skin, licking the fear-tainted sweat off Jim’s throat, and Jim… Jim had witnessed many a strange phenomenon in this wretched city, so he wasn’t surprised, not really, but adrenaline didn’t need his active permission to surge through his body, a fiery brand on the inside of him, the mirror of Oswald’s ice-cold hands snaking under his shirt. The mobster groaned low in his throat, a sound of deep satisfaction, and proceeded to mouth wetly at a very specific spot in Jim’s neck.

Right over his carotid, a little voice informed Jim. Where he could taste his pulse, wild and quick, too quick.

“Os-Oswald,” Jim rasped. “You need my blood?” He waited a bit, not exactly taken aback by his state of growing arousal. Danger had always kindled the sparks between them, and not only was this Oswald Cobblepot more dangerous than he’d ever been before, but the threat he embodied has elected Jim specifically.

Because of those sparks, or because Jim was the closest warm body around?

Oh God, this love was twisted indeed.

Tilting his head back to give Oswald more room to do whatever it was that needed doing, Jim gave into the weakness to wish this moment was about him, about _them_.

Oswald’s nails dug into his belly. “Thirsty.” The word slipped from between Oswald’s lips like the curse it was. He sounded _ravenous_. One of his hands had glided up to the back of Jim’s head, the gesture threateningly fast. “Need-”

“Bite me,” Jim ground out. Had he always been this desperate, or had the city and the gem at its very core turned him into this creature of questionable decision-making? But what else was he supposed to do, he, a man of too many sins to ever atone, when the mere contact of Oswald’s body through all of their clothes caused his cock to stiffen, when the threat of sharp teeth (oh _God_) grazing the tender skin of his throat sent jolts of pure arousal into his belly? A small whine rose in the room, and from far, far away, Jim realized that it was his.

Him, showing his belly all right.

“Need,” Oswald growled, voice dark.

Without further ado, he clamped down his teeth on the thin skin of his throat.

A keening sound tumbled from Jim’s lips. Damn, but it _hurt_. The pressure could be worse, he supposed, so Oswald must still have the thirst on a leash, but teeth, even of the pointy variety, still tore at skin as much as they pierced it. He meant to stay still through it all (he’d offered himself as a snack, after all, always the white knight, right?), but the slow glide of Oswald’s tongue as it followed the blood oozing out, the graze of canines sharper than blades over the wound, over and over, lit up his survival instincts like a Christmas tree.

“Don’t. Move.” Oswald’s voice was pitched lower than Jim had ever heard it, a predator’s warning to the prey it had chosen.

His hold on the back of his neck tightened. Back _before_, Jim could easily have escaped it, might even have hurt Oswald as he did so without even trying, but Oswald the vampire easily overpowered him.

That shouldn’t drag his mind down the gutter. The hand fixed to the back of his head, the way Oswald was manhandling him like the snack he was, shouldn’t cause his knees to wobble in this very specific way. He listened to Oswald _feeding_, drinking _his _blood, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, completely useless in the face of his desire to submit. Had he ever given Oswald something he truly needed before, he wondered as the world tilted on its axis? Dark spots filled his vision, but Oswald moaned, a tortured sound of surprise, almost, and it was all the encouragement Jim needed to fight on the acute pain of Oswald taking his due.

That, and the fact that his blood was obviously working, because Oswald was almost talking like himself again.

“Oh, James…” Oswald’s tongue swirled around his pulse point, hot and wet. “You taste like sin.”

It was Jim’s turn to moan. Oswald’s tongue traveled all the way to his mouth and glided over Jim’s bottom lip. Jim’s lips parted at once, letting in the taste of his own blood and another one even more foreign, cherished: Oswald’s.

They kissed like they’d so often fought, harsh and messy, full of emotions intricate, a physical confession of all the parallel realities that existed in their minds. Jim’s knees gave up entirely when Oswald wrapped his lips around his tongue and sucked.

“Here,” Oswald crooned, kissing the corner of his mouth. His lips were not as pale as before, and some color had returned to his cheeks. He lay Jim down on the hard wood floor and unfastened his trousers, every gesture feverish as he took in inch after inch of unraveled skin.

Jim let it happen. The loss of blood didn’t help with the thinking, but he was pretty sure that under more normal circumstances, he would have divested Oswald of all of his clothes before the mobster even had a chance to unknot his tie (and Jim always went for the perfect simple knot).

In a few seconds, his pants were gone, and so was his underwear. His cock stood fully hard, the head gleaming against his belly.

“I need more,” Oswald whispered, nostrils flaring.

He was already kneeling between Jim’s parted legs, one hand on each of Jim’s thighs, his face inches away from his groin. His bad leg truly didn’t bother him anymore.

“’s okay,” Jim managed, digging his nails into his palms _hard_. “I’m…” _Yours_. _Fine. _One of these was a lie, the other a truth he’d once wished was a lie, too. “Do it.”

Oswald, to his surprise, didn’t dive straight for the femoral artery. Jim didn’t mind; he could feel the dizziness consistent with blood loss, and he’d rather be conscious for the rest. Now that he’d had Oswald’s teeth in his throat and his tongue in his mouth, the idea of him finding a second course elsewhere was unbearable. Besides, he was a healthy man in his prime; it took a lot to kill him.

“Os…” He trailed off as Oswald’s hands moved to the back of his thighs and pushed them up, exposing the rest of him. His cock, which had gone softer from the pain, filled up all the way to full hardness when Oswald went for the glans, quick little licks interspersed with mewling sounds that numbed the fear still very much alive in Jim’s heart.

“James.” An awed whimper followed by a wet mouth at the base of Jim’s cock, then further back, caressing his balls. Oswald didn’t suck them into his mouth, and the part of Jim still very much aware of sharp canines approved (but only that part, and it was dimming with every slurping noise).

Oswald’s next words punched a grunt from his throat.

“For so long, James…” Oswald was panting, kissing along the sensitive stretch of skin behind his balls. “I wanted-”

“Yes.” With a growl, Jim reached for the mobster’s hair to caress the soft strands. He didn’t dare do anything more lest the vampire conceived it as a challenge to his dominance. “Me too. Fuck.”

Another kiss, closer to his hole. Jim could feel himself clench, and his cock throbbed.

“I need more blood,” Oswald admitted in a strangely vulnerable voice.

“Go on,” Jim urged him. “You can take more.”

“But not much.”

“Don’t leave.”

Oswald’s head snapped up at the threat. The displeasure tightening his eyes receded fast, and fondness shone in its stead. “I don’t believe I take orders very well… nowadays,” he said in a growl, but the fondness stayed, an undercurrent in his words. “Not that I ever did, mind you. Try not to squirm too much, or I will hurt you.” He shook his head, whispered. “I don’t want to.”

The admission pulled at Jim’s heartstrings. Carefully, he let go of Oswald’s hair. “I…” There were so many ways to expose his own vulnerability beyond lying naked here, at this man’s mercy; he had but to pick one. “I trust you, Oswald.”

Rather than replying with words, Oswald cupped Jim’s buttocks and pulled at them. The sensation of a mouth ghosting over his rim had Jim claw at the floorboard. How long had it been since he’d last experienced such an intimate gesture, since he’d last indulged in this exotic pleasure?

How many times had he pictured Oswald precisely like this?

He felt the tip of a tongue probing at the muscle and shivered. Nails sank in his buttocks, a clear warning, and Jim focused on relaxing. For a while, it even worked.

Then Oswald went for the kill: with both his thumbs massaging the rim, he shoved his tongue up Jim’s ass and started thrusting it with gusto. His moans reverberated through Jim’s entire body, and his growls, too, and Jim couldn’t say which he preferred; he arched his back off the floor and let Oswald feast on him, momentarily lost to the onslaught of pleasure. His prostate ached to be stimulated, but a tongue wouldn’t do, it never did, and then a finger joined the tongue, as if Oswald had been waiting for his needy whine, and yes, that was it, Jim could feel his balls tightening, he was gone, gone, _gone_-

He climaxed with a shout. The thin finger in his hole retreated and, after a last delightful thrust, so did that clever tongue.

“Oswald-” Jim started, but he never got to finish.

“I tried… to fight it-”

“Don’t,” Jim gasped, too far gone to realize how that order might be perceived.

The next thing he knew, pain bloomed close to his groin, sharp and raw. The endorphins from his orgasm promptly faded at the fresh surge of adrenaline.

Jim embraced the pain. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and waited, ramrod tense, as Oswald sucked his life through thin holes in his inner thigh. The hungry noises the mobster keep making reminded him of pleasure, and Jim turned his attention to the fingers digging bruises into his hips. Oswald had been under his skin for so long, it was only right that he signed the outside as well.

When the canines retreated and Oswald moved slightly to lap at the blood running down his thigh, Jim couldn’t have said how much time has passed. He felt lighter than a balloon, and for some reason, the maddening quality of the situation finally caught to him.

A sliver of laugher trickled from his lips. Oswald’s face popped above him. When exactly had they moved to the bed? Jim sank further in the soft mattress with a grunt. Laughing, it turned out, was much too exhausting.

A lukewarm hand cradled his face, the same side as the puncture wounds.

“I apologize, I- I lost control.” The distraught set of Oswald’s features shifted to anger. Morphed, slowly, into self-recrimination. “You will want me to leave now. Not that I can blame you. You-” His lids fell at half-mast, and a faint pink dusted his cheeks; Jim’s blood giving color to his own feelings. “You look, and taste, so very much like the forbidden fruit, James.”

The rough edge of his voice sent lust pool in Jim’s groin. He was completely spent, but the knowledge that Oswald _ached _for him, no, was _in awe_, added to the knowledge that his own blood, the very blood Oswald had drunk from him, showed Oswald’s emotions for him, almost gave him enough energy to grab Oswald by his bloodied tie and yank him down for a messy kiss. But Oswald was right about one thing: there had been some lost control involved, and Jim felt weaker than a kitten.

“Water,” he rasped.

Oswald was out the room in a breeze. Jim had barely started to doze off when a glass of water was pressed into his hand. Oswald helped him sit up.

“Here, drink.” Oswald tilted his head back and guided the glass to his chapped lips. “Just like this, James. God, I should have thought of this myself.” The sound of crunched paper. Chewing the first bite of the cookie was a challenge, but by the end of it, Jim felt slightly more aware of his surroundings.

The light showed him just how red Oswald’s lips had become. Tainted with Jim’s blood. His eyes had returned to red irises, the black pupils a small dot in both.

“Your blood…” Jim heard Oswald swallow, felt the first brush of a finger behind the shell of his ear. A violent shiver ran down his spine. “It is- I’ve been intoxicated before, but it feels like nothing, nothing at all, compared to how much I want-” The finger on his neck became a hand, a cool palm pressed to the side of it, a slow caress at odds with the violence of the need trapped in Oswald’s words. “I want to _ravage _you, James. Drink every single drop of blood your body contains, feast on the life of you slowly making its way into me, and I’ve always- even before- I’ve always felt that way. Have I not desired you so fiercely before today, before I… changed, I don’t believe I would have been able to trick my own nature, to restrain myself. Even now, I…” He trailed off, leaned into Jim to whisper the next words in his ear. “Not that I’m not forever in your debt, but can you please tell me how you could be so casual about it all?”

Jim huffed a laugh. He felt safe, even if he shouldn’t, because he knew that had their roles been reversed, Oswald would feel exactly the same. That was how Gotham worked; how they danced with each other.

“It was high time I let you have something of me.”

Oswald wrapped his arms around Jim’s back, not quite sitting in his lap, not yet. Distress laced his next words. “James, you’re talking about your _life_-”

Jim huffed. “Oh, _please_. Like you don’t secretly think that you should be the only one deciding of my faith. I witnessed you dead and alive, Oswald, and I know you, know _us_: you think my death is your business just as much as my life is.”

A faint blush crept up the mobster's cheeks. “Only so I can treasure the very essence of you through all your states of being, James.”

Jim captured his lips in a heated kiss. The contact was meant to be a connexion, but hunger must still sing in Oswald’s changing body, and Jim had so many lost opportunities to make up for. He didn’t mind the bite to his lip, even welcomed the sting, bewildered that he was by the presence of Oswald in his room, his _lap, _so thankful for the second chance he'd been given.

“Is death even a thing anymore?” he teased once he'd caught his breath.

"Always so curious." The tone was not nearly as chiding as the words suggested. "You should rest, now." His mobster, vampire, _lover_, helped him under the covers and wrapped himself around him. He still felt cold, but Jim felt increasingly warm inside. “Sleep, James. I will be there when you wake again.”

It sounded like a promise.


End file.
